


A Song in the Dark

by Once_upon_a_parker



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:43:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Once_upon_a_parker/pseuds/Once_upon_a_parker
Summary: Cecil is your typical young author; flawless, fluid, and odd. He assumes he understands this world better than anyone, but he is soon to learn that he doesn't know everything this world of ours has to offer.





	1. The Buttermilk Sky

**Author's Note:**

> IM ALIVEEEE  
> Hello everyone, and many thanks to everyone who has supported my works till this point and sticking with me. I've gotten through that rut in my life and am finally able to write again. So here it is, *drumroll please!* an original work for all of you to enjoy! I'd like to thank you all again for your constant support, your kind comments (ahh thy melt my heart I cri tears of joy) and kudos! It means the world to me!  
> Please be sure to inform me of your opinions regarding this series, I'd greatly appreciate it!

The familiar bell jingles. A gust of autumn wind blows the young man inside, red and yellow leaves following him through the doorway.  
His name is Cecil. He doesn’t stand out in a crowd; in fact he prefers it that way, ducking out of view and watching the people swim by. He’s a photographer, a writer, an observer; the kind that sits at the curb and waits for the world. He’s energetic, but artistically listless, getting a glazed look in his sleepy blue eyes while painting a fantasy over the reality laid to rest before him. He falls foolishly in love often, but not for long before his attention is dragged elsewhere. He’s curious, but lazy and unwilling to look into things that require effort or trouble. To sum it up, he’s just like every other human being. But he’s not ordinary, and the world around him is far from normal.  
He places his order, smiling vaguely at the cute cashier before hurrying to a secluded table and settling on the cold cushions of his chair, breathing a sigh. He’s exhausted, and rightfully so; he had stayed up all night to catch a once in a lifetime meteor shower with his trusty camera. While waiting for the sky to fall he shakily wrote on his computer, possibly the only thing that kept his fingers from falling off in the cold. But with the rise of the sun he couldn’t find sleep, so he ended up here, huddled away from the cold.

“Here’s your drink, sir.” The cashier stands next to him, her smile all too wide and giddy. “A large chai latte for you. Would you like anything else?”

Cecil is too tired to flirt back to the obviously crushing barista, so he just shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

She cleverly hides her disappointment with a cheery, “Well, let me know!” and flits away. He sinks back, his eyelids heavy. Normally he’d flirt back, just to make her day, but he can’t seem to find the energy, his mind slow and lethargic.

“Ugh,” he grumbles, massaging his aching temples. His phone dings in his pocket. It’s probably Carson making sure he got back safely, but the thought of trying to form words is exhausting in itself. He lays his head down on the sticky table, stifling a yawn. The café isn’t too noisy – it’s warm and filled with delicious smells, and Cecil is asleep in a matter of seconds while life continues around him.  
The assassin orders his drink, the terrorist pulls out his favorite novel, the stalker snaps pictures of a sleeping Cecil, and it’s another ordinary day.

 

~~~

 

“Ouch, Carson, what the hell was that for?!”

The red-headed boy pulls his hand away, scowling furiously, his eyes glittering viciously, one green, one blue. “You never answered me! I thought you got killed or something!”

Cecil massages his sore jaw where Carson smacked him. “I fell asleep, Carson, cut me some slack.”

Carson sighs but sets his hand out of smacking range. “Fine. Just don’t disappear on me again.”

“Alright,” Cecil concedes, leaning back in his chair. His eyes are smudged with dark bruises that somehow fit him, giving him the appearance of a brooding emo boy. His pale face is thoughtful as he gazes at his friend.

“I got some good shots,” he reports cheerfully. “I found the perfect place to sit for it.”

“Wasn’t it cold?” Carson worries. “Did you dress warmly?”

“You’re such a worrywart. Cecil says teasingly. “I’m fine, see?” Carson scrutinizes Cecil before leaning back and grunting approval. 

“Your apartment is a disaster,” he states broodily. “Can I help you clean it up?”  
The apartment is chaos, but not with trash or lingering laundry. It is definitely the home of a struggling writer. The tables are crowded with chipped mugs stained with coffee, there are manuscripts crowded in the corner, and photos of people walking and rain falling scattered across the carpet. Pencils, pens, and markers chewed at the ends have been tossed haphazardly around the house. Colorful sticky notes plaster every possible surface – some several months old, some written only yesterday – sitting side by side like multi-colored soldiers. It’s a mess, but it’s Cecil’s mess.

“Naw,” he replies smoothly, straightening his stack of pictures perched on the side table almost kindly. “Every time I clean it up, I can never find anything again.”

“If you say so,” Carson responds uncertainly. “But did you get a lot of sleep?”

“Yes, Carson. Quite being my mother already.”

He grunts and stands, stretching with a creak of his bones. “I feel like cooking,” he states. “Do you have something I could cook with?”

“Besides instant ramen? No.”

“You only eat instant ramen?” Carlson blanches, mortified at the thought. “How do you even survive?”

Cecil opens his faithful laptop, grinning broadly at his friend. “You’d be surprised. After all. I’m still here.”

~~~

The apartment is full of good smells. Cecil believes that smell is one of the most descriptive senses; the smell of crisp pine, the sickly odor of disease, the rich aroma of heavenly chocolate and cream. It always takes you there, the smell on your tongue, filling your nose. He languishes in it, taking deep breaths so he can fill his entire body with the aromas.

“Are you having an asthma attack over there?” Carson calls from the kitchen, his cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven. Cecil opens his eyes slightly, just enough to show the blue of his irises, crescents of sapphires fringed with brown eyelashes. His skin is pale and unmarked, his shift revealing the ivory column of his throat, delicately beautiful. He laughs softly, a breath of sound.

“No, it just smells good in here now.”

Carson smiles warily, wrinkling the freckles scattered across his cheeks. His red hair is messy from his hand running through it often. His body is lean and willow from exercise and a good diet, while Cecil’s thin body comes simply from genetics and good luck. He carries himself casually, shoulders sloped and hands in his pockets as he observes people milling around him. He speaks in a calm, rational voice, not demanding of an argument, but rather a voice of the truth as he perceives it; though he favors avoiding any conversation that will result in disagreement. Though possibly the most beautiful thing about him is his artistic mind.  
At the comment from Cecil he visibly blooms, reaching toward it – he seeks compliments from his friend like a flower would crave sunlight.

“What are you cooking?” Cecil closes his eyes as he inquires, his breaths audible as he tastes the air. Carson admires the serene expression on Cecil’s face before answering, as if wanting to keep this moment for longer than permitted.

“Something simple.” He seems to enjoy not breaking the quiet. “Just poached salmon and some scones.” He smiles fondly, recalling those cool evenings with polished silver-wear and the clinking of champagne glasses, snow white tablecloths and folded napkins covering the old-fashioned wooden table.

“Fancy,” Cecil comments calmly, stretching out like a cat before pinning Carson with his intense blue gaze. “But there’s a problem.”

“What?” Carson says, innocently.

“If I eat that,” Cecil says, seriously, “Then I will never be able to enjoy my instant ramen again. I’ll wake up expecting some fancy meal, and instead find a brick of noodles and sodium in my bowl. It’ll ruin my ramen forever. Mint salad,” he scoffs, “Who needs it when you have artificial beef flavoring?”

“If you ever want some variety in your life,” Carson states incredulously. “Or a balanced diet, you know, things your life depends on?”

“Unimportant little details,” Cecil states waving it away calmly. “But because you went through all this trouble, I suppose I can eat it.”

Carson knows Cecil isn’t trying to be rude; in fact he’s being his normal self, turning something small into a major obstacle he’ll have to scale, but Carson can’t help it. His heart plummets. He’d hoped that this would show Cecil his cooking talents and impress him, but it seems to have only become a problem. Carson sighs. Well, he’d tried. The young author is simply stubborn when it comes to changing his routine.  
Cecil stifles a yawn and looks out at the window curiously from his position on the couch. The cushions are permanently formed to fit his lithe body, and he smiles to himself, as if enjoying his own little joke.

“What is it?” Carson asks, seemingly unable to pry his eyes from Cecil’s dreamlike gaze and posture, as if the boy doesn’t have a single worry in his life at all. Well, that makes sense; at twenty-eight years old Cecil has already published four books and is rolling a debt-free life. The success of his award winning novels promise a life without worries or pain, but, strangely, Cecil denies it. He still eats cheap instant ramen, works at a flower shop, and doesn’t act rich despite the fact that he is. He doesn’t buy fancy watches or luxurious clothes, instead favoring his trusty jeans and sweatshirts. He donates to charity and seems to enjoy giving canned goods to the hungry.  
His social networks are always awash with girls asking to date him, and rants about how he’s the greatest human to live; so much so that Cecil has turned off the notifications to ensure he gets sleep at night. He never talks about the profit he’s made, nor how many books he’s sold; he instead chats about politics, the weather, good cafes, and how life is going for him, wittily and with humor. He’s good at talking, his voice silk and his eyes on you, as if you’re the only thing in the world worth paying attention to. He doesn’t interrupt, hardly ever disagreeing unless he has a valid reason as to why, and he’s patient and offers good moral support when needed. Carson isn’t sure why Cecil is this way, but it’s almost too easy to spill your deepest secrets to him whenever he indicates he’s interested. And at hearing Carson speak, Cecil looks directly at him, those clue eyes seeming to pierce right through him.

“The sky,” Cecil explains, “looks like buttermilk.”

Carson takes a moment to process this. Cecil is infamous for weird sayings and random thoughts, though sometimes it catches him off-guard. “Buttermilk?” Carson repeats. “How?”

“The clouds are thick and creamy,” Cecil explains. “They blanket the sky…”

“But, buttermilk?”

“Look,” he says sweetly, gesturing at the window. Carson obeys, peering at the gray, overcast sky. He can’t find any resemblance to buttermilk whatsoever.

“It just looks like clouds,” he says, irritably.

“You’re looking at it like an adult would.” Cecil says this bitterly, as if the idea repulses him. “Look at it like a child would. The light gray, the pale sheets, the fluff of the clouds. Look at it and imagine what it would feel like, cotton or fleece under your fingers. Would it be warm, or cool and malleable to your touch? Don’t look at it and think, ‘oh, more clouds,’ no! Think about what it’d feel like to fall through them, into a dream, spreading out around you. Close your eyes and look at them again. Do you see it now?”

Carson feels ridiculous but obeys, letting Cecil’s words wash over him. It’s almost meditative, the lull of his friend’s voice, the clouds, falling into bliss. He opens his eyes, and looks at the sky fondly. 

“Buttermilk,” he repeats to himself.

Cecil doesn’t bother asking if he can see it now; he catches the dreamy look in Carson’s eyes and knows instinctively. His bitter expression breaks into a faint smile, like the sun breaking through the clouds. 

“Look at things through a child’s eyes,” he says, “where everything is new and different. Life wouldn’t be fun otherwise.”

“You’re an adult though, Cecil,” Carson responds. “And I’m one too. We aren’t children anymore.”

“You may look the part, but you don’t have to think it.” Cecil’s expression clouds slightly. “That’s what writing it about. You can’t regard the world  
in the blandness of adults’ eyes. The story wouldn’t have any juice.”

“Juice?” Carson feels lost already.

“What makes the story flow?” Cecil asks, turning his attention back to the window. “The juice is the blood and heart of the story. Without it the story is clunky and disorganized.” He gives an involuntary shudder. “In order to wield a story, you must have the juice.”

“I don’t understand,” declares Carson, “And yet I do. I’m not a writer, but I can certainly tell a good story from a bad one. Is that what you mean?”

Cecil doesn’t answer, and Carson recognizes that distant look in his friend’s eyes, and decides to drop it, knowing he won’t get any other response. Carson looks back out the window, out at the clouds blanketing the blue.

“Buttermilk sky,” he says softly, and he can see it now.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Cecil puts down his fork with a satisfied sigh.  
The meal had been successful. All the scones were eaten, the dough between the teeth, and salmon on the tongue. Cecil ate every bite without complaint, instead complimenting Carson on his cooking. Carson sits across from Cecil, analyzing his expressions and how many times he chews per bite. He peppers him with questions: “How’s the texture? Is it too soft? Has it gone cold? Is the outside, God forbid, crunchy?” From Cecil he receives no response, nor reaction.

Carson can hardly take it anymore. “Well?” he nearly shouts.

“Satisfying.” Cecil smiles kindly, warmly. It sears through Carson’s entire body, bringing a smile to his own face. “It definitely tops ramen.”

Carson chuckles. “I’d hope so.” He seems to grow distant. “Are you sure it’s good?”

“For God’s sake, it’s fine!” Cecil rolls his eyes incredulously. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Carson blushes. “It’s a reasonable question for someone who’s only eaten ramen.” And he blushes again. “Sorry.”  
Cecil looks back at the buttermilk sky, his expression solemn. It’s nearing dusk. The buildings are covered with shadows and the sky is a mess of colors, streaking across Cecil’s earnest expression.

“Have you ever listened to the stars?” he asks with a soft exuberance. “Have you ever just sat and looked up and listened to their song?”

Carson is unsure on how to respond to the remark, but he admits somewhat modestly that he has not. “I never look up,” he confesses. “I’m always looking down at my phone or my feet.”

“If you look up,” Cecil explains, “Then you can live a little bit more.”

~~~

As it happens, Landon is looking down; not seeing anything, not hearing anything. He finds it pleasantly relieving, being numb. At least that way he can deny feeling bad at all.  
His eyes travel to his hands, knit and settled in his lap. There’s a story in the whorl of his fingertips and old wounds, scarred palms, and bandaged fingers.  
He can still hear her: “Please don’t look at me. Not now” Her face is pale, her voice is weak. Lying in bed, he clenches his jaw, trying not to let her get to him. It was years ago, but he can still hear her, see her, crying his name.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, “Not yet.”

But she’s already left, and he’s crying over a corpse.  
Whenever he hurts, he trains.  
He fires pistols until his arms and ears ache, punches sacks until his knuckles bleed, rolls, kicks, jumps, somersaults, bruises and throbs, and tastes blood on his tongue until feel the painful memories anymore. He can see red, but he can’t see her anymore; he’s blurred by exhaustion.

“Landon, the day’s barely started.” He turns to a stout, blonde-haired woman, her hands on her hips, and her hair in a tight bun. Despite her sharp appearance, the Senior Officer’s face is in its constant smile. “You’re going to be exhausted before lunch.”

She tosses him a towel and water bottle, which he nimbly catches. He mops his brow, gazing at her with narrowed eyes. “You’re here early, Cheryl.”

She snorts. “You’ve been in here pounding away for an hour. The newbies were concerned about your stress levels.”

Landon looks away, a dark lock of hair stuck to his forehead. “They should mind their own business.”

“We’re all worried, Landon.” Cheryl steps forward, pulling a roll of gauze from her pocket. “You’re part of the family. You’ve been for a while.”

“I’m thirty-five years old, not four. You’ve got to stop mothering me.”

“Well, you don’t act like it. You come in here almost every morning and throw a fit and beat up our poor punching bag.” She takes his hands, bandaging his knuckle with familiar movements, covering snowy white over cracked red skin. She’s still smiling despite the blood. “You want to hurt, huh?”

He stiffens slightly at this. “That’s not true,” he protests. But that’s a lie. It seems all he says these days are lies. “I just want to get stronger.”

“You’re the top officer, Landon. You can stop trying to impress the newbies now.”

He chuckles despite himself. “The more I scare them, the harder they’ll work.”

“You’re just a bully.” Cheryl shakes her head with a smile, repeating her mantra: “Come on, the day has just begun.”

~~~

Landon sits stiffly in his chair as if refusing to get comfortable. Among the other police officers, he sticks out like a sore thumb. His navy blue uniform is always ironed, his tie pressed, and his badge and shoes polished on a daily basis. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t procrastinate, and won’t hesitate to tell you off. He’s intelligent, and isn’t afraid to argue his point. His expression is almost always flat and unfeeling, his emerald green eyes viciously sharp and piercing. His brown hair is always perfectly trimmed and his chin always cleanly shaved. He doesn’t open up, his whole self guarded and wary, his lips a permanent scowl and eyes never wavering. While Cecil lounges around, showing off his body (somewhat proudly), Landon does not. He never gets on a personal level, never lets anyone get too close.  
And Landon has never listened to the stars or dreamed of the buttermilk sky; in fact he prefers it that way. He’s learned that dreaming leads down a rabbit hole of dark thoughts.  
While the other desks look actually lived in, his desk is utterly empty – no pictures, no inspirational quotes, no sticky notes, as if it’s just a place to work and nothing else. To Landon, he merely lives to die; there’s no other reason, no other meaning to it. He does not love, doesn’t care for it. He doesn’t have friends, he thinks he’s better without. He’s straightforward, almost cruel with his criticism, chastising newbies if they allow a finger or toe out of place.

“He’s back at it again,” Cheryl reports, solemnly. “Our famous murderer is back to work.”

Landon looks up from his planner, pencil poised in midair. “I thought he left state.”

“He’s a sneaky bastard,” Cheryl says, cheerfully. She’s definitely the mother of the force with her soft face, kind smile, and buttery sweet attitude. She never snaps, never yells, hardly chastises. Cecil would approve of her, and they could spend hours admiring the sky together.

Landon can’t help it, his stomach turns slightly at the mention of the serial killer. He appears periodically, the unnamed killer who’s just as merciless as he is mysterious. His prey have nothing in common, all living in different areas and with different possessions. But all their deaths are gruesome; deep gouges, slit throats, open stomachs, burns, bruises, poisons, hangings. All of them have a vague bird over their hearts, carved by a knife, earning the killer the name Crow. He’s swift, never leaving evidence, never leaving any chance for the victim. He’s vicious, dangerous, and uncertain.  
And he’s closer to Landon than he’d prefer.

“Here’s the file report,” Cheryl continues, tossing a manila folder onto his desk. “His most recent victim is a thirteen-year-old girl named Sarah Villa, killed two days ago on Summer Street at approximately 1:30 a.m. She had her wrists cut and was knocked unconscious, allowing her to bleed out. 

“Awful,” Landon comments, “but not unusual for the Crow. Any evidence?”

“Only the wounds on her body.”

“Damn.”

His coffee mug is already empty before five minutes have passed, and Cheryl replaces it with a full one, billowing steam. “Don’t stress too much. We already have other officers on the case as well. You’re not alone.”

“I know. I just…” He seems to struggle with how to describe his thoughts and emotions, his face puzzled. “I don’t work well with others.”

“I know,” Cheryl snorts. “It was a pain to train you when you were still a newbie. So defiant and hormonal! Who knew I would actually be able to accomplish teaching you?”

“Cheryl…” Landon groans, but she shushes him.

“And you were so sarcastic!” she continues, just loud enough so everyone in the building can hear her. “What names you called me! I never thought I’d hear the end of it!”

“Cheryl –”

“And your appearance! Slicked back hair, piercings, torn pants! But look at you now, one of the strongest officers on the force!” She practically glows with pride. “I saw a good person right off the bat, Landon. I saw you and knew I had to be the one to train you. I have no regrets whatsoever.”

Landon rolls his eyes but allows a small smile to form on his face, a smile that only she can coax out. “Whatever, Cheryl. Get out of here or none of us will get any work done.”

Cheryl salutes him then strides out, hooking her arms with two newbies she agreed to train and dragging them along like puppies. Cheryl is an intense trainer, her methods unexpected and often rigorous, keeping you on your toes at all times. Seeing her tow away the unsuspecting newbies makes Landon feel a pang of sympathy for them. 

The day inches by slowly, the manila folder only revealing vague details not worth Landon’s trouble. He tosses the folder away with an aggravated sigh. His boot taps rhythmically on the ground, an annoyed tempo. The Crow needs to be captured, but the bastard’s decidedly mysterious and leaves no clues, except for his calling card – the bird cut above the heart.

"I don’t know what to do…” he mutters, frustrated. He gets angry over stubborn problems easily, one fault he hates to admit. The Crow seems out of reach, barely brushing peripheral view, almost teasingly playing with lives that aren’t theirs. Whoever the Crow is, they must be laughing at the police’s stupidity right about now.

~~~

The Crow is, in fact, not laughing.  
He’s too busy to laugh. His targets are multiplying, and now he’s working overtime with no extra pay. The boss is hanging over his shoulder, busy, busy, busy, no time to sit and dream.  
His name isn’t the Crow. He’s not crazy, but not exactly merciless either – and he doesn’t mind. This is his job, one that he takes pride in, and he wouldn’t want any other.  
He shifts slightly, momentarily alleviating the stiffness in his knees before settling back in the awkward position.  
On the balcony across the street Cecil spreads his arms, smiling at the stars, and the assassin never takes his eyes off him; even after that red-headed kid ushers him inside, even after Cecil lays spread out on his couch, even after the lights go out.

The boss hangs over his shoulder, shouting in his ear: “Busy, busy, busy!”

The Crow stands and strides away, his trench coat snapping in the autumn breeze, the boss’ voice ringing in his head. “No time, it must be soon… Hurry, hurry…”  
The assassin pulls out his knife, the blade glinting silver before he vanishes in the shadows. Yes, he has a lot of work ahead of him.


	2. Black Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cecil and Landon's paths cross at the flower shop, and Cecil is taken aback by the man's strict and cold personality. But for some reason, he can't seem to get to police officer out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, everyone!! I hope you enjoy chapter 2!! <3

“Good morning, Cecil! I brought donuts!”

Cecil turns, his expression doubtful as he holds two shirts an arm’s length away, almost as if disgusted by them. Besides his sweatpants, he’s naked. He bares his unmarked ivory skin somewhat boldly, not hiding himself from Carson, who’s standing shocked in the doorway. Cecil smiles, somewhat nonchalantly despite being shirtless. 

“Oh, breakfast! Just set it in the kitchen, please.” He turns away, his eyebrows knit thoughtfully. “I can’t decide what shirt to wear today…”

Carson covers his eyes, blushing heatedly. “A-Any will be fine! Just put one on!”

“Of course any will be fine…” Cecil muses, “But a choice still has to be made.” He turns slightly, the morning sun catching him and making him seem to glow. Backed by the earnest blue sky, it seems he could fly away at any moment, being as ethereal as he is. He doesn’t seem at all bothered that Carson just waltzed in, nor modest, nor shy.  
By the way he stands, leaning slightly on one leg, so his hips thrust to the side, it seems that nothing could possibly go wrong in the world. He rolls his shoulder, rippling the muscles along his back. His bare feet are soft and fragile, and his hands bear no scars or old wounds. His hair seems to be woven through with gold; the strands curl around his face, framing it in delicate brown billows, fluffy and unkempt, sticking up one side from the position he slept in. However, he seems to be unaware of his own beauty. He instead focuses on the dilemma at hand.

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Carson protests from behind his hands. “It’s just a shirt!”

“I turn every problem into a catastrophe,” Cecil murmurs somewhat distantly. “That way when I conquer it, I’ll feel a lot more triumphant.”

“That’s good for your self-esteem and all, but absurdly unnecessary.”

“Unnecessary!” Cecil scoffs. “Is looking at the sky unnecessary? Is breathing unnecessary?”

“I think you’ve got the importance of those mixed up…”

“Is listening to the stars unnecessary? How about eating? Sheesh…” Cecil’s face is slightly red at this point. “Anything is necessary if it’s important to you.”

Carson doesn’t know how to respond to that little truth, and he decides it’s much too early to think about it too deeply. “Just put on a shirt, I want to eat my donuts!”

“You don’t have to close your eyes, we’re not children,” Cecil says, keenly.

Carson uncovers his face, somewhat sheepishly, and his eyes fall on Cecil’s lean form bathed in sunlight. He’s turned towards Carson now, his head inclined, baring his throat slightly, his shoulders somewhat curled in on himself, his collarbones jutting out slightly, the shirts dangling from his fingertips. He suddenly seems almost shy, pensive and worried to see Carson’s reaction.

“It’s not like you’re the first one to see me shirtless…” Cecil seems to be comforting himself vainly. “P.E. in high-school was awful…” He shudders slightly. “But if it suits you, you can look away.”

“It’s not like you look bad!” Cecil protests, blushing furiously. “It’s not like that at all…”

“Which one?” Cecil asks, holding the shirts in front of him. Both are floral, almost feminine-looking, but Cecil looks good in both – and all clothing, for that matter. One’s black, the other gray, both short-sleeved and decorated with flowers on the sleeves. Carson can’t quite figure out why it’s such a big deal (they’re almost exactly the same!) but knows the only way to get Cecil to leave home with a shirt on is to think like him. Carson toys with the thought before making up his mind.

“Well, what do you feel like today? Is it a black day or a gray day?”

Cecil blinks thoughtfully, looks down at his shirts, then outside, challenging the sky with his imprudent blue gaze. He mulls it over, rolls it around, gets a feel of it, then seems to come to a decision. “A black day,” he says, with some finality. “Today’s a black day.”

Carson releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, sagging slightly in relief. “Check and mate,” he says with a faint smile. “Another obstacle obliterated.”

Cecil tosses the gray shirt onto the couch and pulls the black one over his head, working his arms through the sleeves before letting it settle around his hips, bunched and un-straightened. He rubs his eyes vigorously, frowning. “I’m going to wear my glasses today,” he states, as if this was another problem he silently struggled with and didn’t solve till now. “My contacts are irritating my eyes…”

“I forgot you wore them altogether,” Carson admits. “I never really think about it.”

Cecil shrugs. “It’d be hard to see the stars without them.”

Of course that’s what he’d worry about, Carson thinks. Not the concern about being able to see, but for not being able to see the stars. A thought occurs to him. “Why is it a black day?” he asks, somewhat worriedly. “Are you feeling sad today?”

Cecil doesn’t answer. His mind seems elsewhere as he looks down at his gray shirt laying neglected on the sofa. “Of course,” he murmurs to himself, “It seems to always be a good day to wear gray…”

~~~

With the donuts spread out around them, Carson already regrets buying the sugary pastries. “There goes my diet,” he says, glaring at the donuts with a somewhat affronted look. 

Cecil licks the chocolate frosting from his lips and sticky fingers, his black framed glasses perched unobtrusively on the bridge of his nose. Carson wouldn’t admit it aloud, but Cecil even pulls the glasses off, looking intelligent, yet sweet and cozy. “That’s good,” he states. “I was worried you weren’t human.”

Carson promptly chokes on his donut. “W-What? Why?”

Cecil plucks another sticky pastry from the stack. “No one can resist desserts for long… If you do, you’re obviously not human.”

“Or you’re diabetic,” Carson protests, “Or you want to lose weight…”

“Hardly,” Cecil shrugs. “No one can resist these for long.”

“Whatever.” Carson finishes his donut and wipes his fingers on a napkin, the paper sticking to him before he peels it away with a look of slight disgust. “Do you have any manuscripts you’d like me to read?”

Cecil gazes about his apartment thoughtfully before shaking his head. “No, I haven’t been able to get anything right…”

“Is that why it’s a black day?”

Once again, it’s as if Cecil didn’t hear him. He examines his fingernails, then takes a breath, as if trying to focus and clear his head. “Maybe,” he says, thoughtfully, “Maybe my readers will have some ideas…” 

“Anything you come up with is amazing!” Carson protests. “Your writing is so beautiful.”

Cecil purses his lips, thinking. “It just seems like whatever I write, a good idea or not, it doesn’t sound good…”  
Carson pushes his chair back with a scrape, coming around the table to embrace Cecil, holding the boy close. He knows that words won’t help today, not now. At first Cecil is stiff, but then blooms, melting into the embrace. “Today’s a black day, huh?” Carson murmurs softly.

“You know how an artist’s mind works,” Cecil responds distantly. “At some point, even words have no meaning.” He breathes a sigh. “I’m fine. I think, perhaps, you can read that stack over there.” He points, quite modestly, at a shallow stack perched on the coffee table, the lined pages crowded with jagged letters and eraser shavings. “If you’d like…”

“Of course,” Carson says. He stands upright, smiling shyly. “Did… that help?”

“More than you know.” Cecil stands as well, running his tongue over his frosting-glazed lips. “Now, it’s not that I’m sad, but I feel quite heavy…”

Carson had never really thought about what goes on in the author’s head – if he’s lonely, if he’s sad, if he keeps it bottled up. He’s known Cecil since they were kids; he was the little boy who sat in the tire swing and wrote while Carson played. They’d grown together, hand in hand, catching fireflies and frogs by the creek, skipping stones and building forts and creating overly complicated secret handshakes. They had told scary stores under blankets in the light of a flashlight, jumped in puddles, danced in the rain.

Carson realizes Cecil hasn’t changed much; he was deep even when he was a kid. He remembers when he and Cecil stood among their fellow preschoolers and Cecil had said, quite sadly, “Have you ever felt alone, even when around other people?” And Carson, being but five years old, exclaimed gleefully, “Of course not, silly!”

Cecil looks at him now, his blue eyes insightful. “I have to go to work now,” he says. “Perhaps this will help clear my head…”

Carson tries to push away his painfully visible worries, his eyes slightly hooded as he walks Cecil to the door. “I hope so. Do you… want me to bring you lunch?”

“You’ve done enough,” Cecil responds kindly. “Just read today. I can’t wait to smell the flowers… They’re very nice on days you feel leaden.” He opens the door, smiles at Carson, and saunters down the hall toward the elevators, his hands behind his back and his chin tilted up as if trying to see the sky through the ceiling.

“Cecil!” Carson exclaims, cupping his hands around his mouth, his eyes shining. “Live a little bit more!”

Cecil turns, gazing at Carson, and he smiles. It’s as if the storm has ended, blown over, the sun breaking through. “Listen to the stars, Carson!”

“But it’s daytime!”

“They never go away, Carson! You just stop listening to them!”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Carson and Cecil never drifted apart, even as their careers led them different directions. Somehow, their friendship lasted – through letters, through phone calls, through holiday visits. While Carson studied interior design, Cecil continued his route of writing, always offering to have Carson reread his work. After graduation they came together and rented neighboring flats. Carson had attempted to convince Cecil to share a flat with him, but Cecil merely shook his head and said that he would never get anything done with all the animals, and he was absolutely not swayed. Carson, who badly wanted to stay near the young author, could not bear to leave his dog behind, so he settled with the closest place he could find, unwilling to abandon neither Cecil nor his pet.

The very first day, Cecil handed him a key to his own apartment, saying, “You can’t really trust me to be alone for long.”

It quickly became tradition to constantly stop by, chatting for hours on Cecil’s couch, snacking, reading together, working, breathing the same air. It was odd to be separated, Carson soon found, as if something went missing without Cecil around; having odd tips, funny quips, and a calm air that set Carson immediately at ease. How he survived those years in college is a miracle to him.  
Now, standing alone in Cecil’s quiet apartment, he already feels quietly depressed and listless without Cecil’s form curled on the sofa, gazing petulantly at the sky through the window. Carson’s more familiar with this apartment than his own – from where all the dished go, to the order Cecil puts his clothes in his closet and the order of his books and movies. He wonders, distantly, if Cecil would have been okay with him cleaning up a bit – the flat is a disaster – but then decides against it. No, Cecil wanted him to read; that comes first. Cecil’s tentative expression as he said, “Just read today…” propels Carson to the stack of manuscripts on the table, and he reads, backed by the buttermilk sky.

~~~

Cecil slouches at the counter, his eyelids feeling heavy and his mind slow. He’s surrounded by blooming orchids, roses, tulips, and poppies; an energetic splash of color splattered around the room. The air is heavenly, perfumed with flowers, sweet but not cloyingly so – it’s worth story material. He’s as exhausted as if he never slept at all, and he rests his head on his hand, fighting sleep. The fan spins lazily over his head. Sunshine teases the interior of the shop and clouds drift by, almost whimsically, sailing on the blue. The stack of letterheads and papers for personal messages flaps softly, with not quite enough of a breeze to be blown away.  
With the boss away and the others on their day off, Cecil is the only employee present; it’s almost meditative to be standing alone in the peaceful store. A woman jogs past. A dog barks. Two businessmen stride by, clad in suits and ties and shiny shoes, as if polished on a daily basis. Cecil feels his head droop, sees his eyelids sinking before him, a net of eyelashes. Sleep has never been a bad thing…  
Carson would have let him sleep – in fact he would have encouraged it, knowing Cecil stayed up in the night to write. He even would have gone the distance of hiding Cecil behind him so the teacher’s prowling gaze wouldn’t notice the boy resting on his books, pencil hanging loosely in his hand. When they were younger, Carson grew accustomed to finding Cecil asleep in random places. He even began toting around a sleeping Cecil from class to class. He never woke Cecil up, never pestered him; merely asked if he slept well and whether he dreamed.  
Cecil almost wishes that he’d stayed home, with Carson sitting nearby reading, his breaths soft and the pages rustling as he turns them carefully, as if they would fall apart between his fingers and crumble to dust. But Carson isn’t here, and Cecil mustn’t sleep.  
The door jingles, making Cecil straighten and reopen his eyes. He gazes at the customer blearily; a man in his thirties stands there, his nose wrinkled in slight disgust. He wears a navy blue uniform with a polished badge pinned to the breast, silver handcuffs glittering at his side like jewelry, a gun holstered to his hip and his hands gloved.  
He stand stiffly, formally, his eyes narrowed. His hair is perfectly trimmed and his face cleanly shaven. His emerald eyes flit over the flowers before landing on Cecil, scrutinizing him, sizing him up. Cecil swallows, trying to understand this man and decipher his vicious glare.

“I need flowers,” the man says, shortly.

“For what occasion?” Cecil asks softly, looking the man up and down. Something is off on him, like he’s troubled, flustered, annoyed – and maybe even scared. The way he stands, how his eyes carry an unseen weight, Cecil feels a push to help this seemingly troubled man standing among the flowers.

“My mentor,” he replies. “It’s for my mentor.”

“As a gift? Is she feeling unwell?”

“No!” The man sounds angry at the thought. “She’s just been working hard lately.”

Cecil blinks slowly, unaffected by the man’s furious shout. “Do you know what her favorite flower might be?”

He suddenly looks somewhat abashed. “W-Well, no…”

“She’s a hard-working type, huh?” Cecil gathers. “Motherly? Loving?”

“Yes…”

“Is she patient?”

“Yes…”

“So maybe…” Cecil comes around the corner, making the man step back, but the boy doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes instead focused on the flowers. “Angelica is for inspiration, chamomile for patience…” He plucks the flowers he names, the beautiful blooms sharply contrasted against his black shirt. “Chrysanthemum is for cheerfulness, coriander for hidden worth…”

The man watched Cecil drift around the shop, a handful of blooms held in front of him, his blue eyes skimming the dainty pastel blossoms in search of what he needs. 

“Basil is for good wishes… Edelweiss for courage and devotion. The golden rod is for encouragement. Hollyhock is for ambition. She sounds ambitious, your mentor… Hyacinth for her constant love for you…”

“How do you know she loves me? You don’t know Cheryl, do you?” The man says, looking angry again.

Are these his constant emotions? Cecil wonders. Does he always resort to angry, embarrassed, or annoyed? The idea somewhat amuses him.

“Cheryl’s a pretty name,” Cecil chirps in response, arranging the herbs and flowers in his hands so their scents complement one another and the fragile petals don’t get ruined. “But because of how you spoke of her I was able to know how much she cares for you. And you’re aware of it, too. Your voice told me everything.”

He turns away, tenderly binding the blooms with a length of purple ribbon, trimming their stems, then placing them in a bed of plastic that crinkles cheerfully in his hands.

“How?” the man asks, incredulously. Cecil turns to him, placing the bouquet in his hands. His blue eyes linger on the man’s jaded ones, his hands still hanging onto the bouquet. 

“You talk of her like a motherly figure,” Cecil explains, softly. “And it seems as if you’ve been supported by her sometime… You referred to her by her first name, and your tone tells me it’s because you’re close, thought distanced slightly because of a business relationship. Is she rather insightful?”

“I suppose…”

“Then she won’t need a note on the meanings of the flowers. I have a feeling she’ll understand.” Cecil nods to the flowers. “Will this be suitable?”

The man grudgingly says it’s fine. “How much is it?”

“About thirty dollars… Edelweiss is pricey because its seeds are foreign…”

“It’s fine,” the man says, extending his debit card. Cecil accepts it, reading his name – Landon – and slides it through the cash register before handing it back to him.

“You know,” he murmurs, passing the man his receipt, “You’re so concentrated on helping other people… You should concentrate on yourself, too.”

Landon blinks, clutching the bouquet closer to himself, then shakes his head somewhat decisively. “Whatever,” he says, then hurries out into the autumn day, the door dinging shut behind him.  
Cecil decides that he’s glad he didn’t stay home.

~ ~ ~

Carson swipes a hand across his forehead, wincing.  
He wishes, quite often, that he worked the same days as Cecil so we wouldn’t have to be alone, but it seems to always turn out this way.  
The dog strains against her leash, her tail wagging, jaws parted and tongue lolling. The husky loves Cecil just as much as Carson does, and at going on a walk without him, she’d cried until Carson gave her a treat, effectively shutting her up. She’s beautiful – her stomach and face creamy white, her back a rusty red color, and her eyes hazel. Cecil would often joke that Carson and the husky were twins.  
“Poppy,” Carson says, tugging at her leash. “Heel.”

She sits looking back at Carson, her tail sweeping the sidewalk clear, her pink tongue dangling out of her mouth. Carson didn’t want to leave the flat, but knowing Poppy would have wrecked his own apartment if they didn’t go on a walk propelled him out the door, leash in hand.  
Carson is unsurprised that Cecil’s writing is as good as ever, but he’s caught up in how to prove it to him; a hug only provides so much comfort. Whenever Carson compliments Cecil, he almost always responds with, “I’m no better than any other writer.”  
Carson stretches, pulling out his phone out of habit, almost expecting a text message from Cecil, who would often send quirky little messages throughout the day, but had not sent anything. Of course not – he’s at work right now. But Carson can’t help but feel a tingle of disappointment. Cecil would always have something funny to say…  
He tugs on the dog’s leash, heaving Poppy onto her feet, and leads her back to the apartment buildings, red leaves scattered across the sidewalk crunching underfoot. His mismatched eyes examine the brick buildings, the dog’s tail wagging cheerfully as they weave through the crowds of people, backed by the blue sky.  
Carson’s apartment is only a few buildings away from Cecil’s. The older building is a popular place for children to play at after school, crouched under the shady overhanging, doing chalk drawings, playing with the tenants’ pets whenever they walk by. At the sight of Carson and Poppy the leap up, all with bright, excited faces, dirty hands, wide smiles, runny noses, and chalk smeared on their knees. None of them remember Carson’s name but perfectly recall the name of his dog, cooing her name while assaulting her with eager little hands. She lets them, her tail wagging, occasionally scoring one of their faces with her wet tongue, making the children squeal and giggle.  
Quite reluctantly, the children let Carson pass. Their eyes trail Poppy inside, their fingers twitching and noses still running; if it weren’t for another approaching pet owner, he may not have made his escape. He nods to his fellow neighbors, who seem to just be returning from work. They’re dressed stiffly in suits and ties, the women’s faces done up, the men’s stoic and flat. Cecil doesn’t like these kind of people – the fake ones, the imposters dressed in shiny shoes and crisp ironed button-down shirts. He complains he can’t ever read them and their expressions and emotions. “They’re just actors,” he would say, “And all other humans are their audience…”  
The elevator dings and they pour in, punching buttons, bumping shoulders, shuffling feet, and muttering apologies. Almost every head tilts up to gaze at the numbers above the door, changing as they go up, 1, 2, 3…  
Carson’s flat is on the fifth floor, facing the street below; a view he quickly grew to adore. In the mornings his room is engulfed in light, drawing him out of bed to see people rising, joggers pattering down the sidewalks, birds singing, and the sky, pink and soft and new. When Cecil stayed over he told Carson that the view was the most beautiful because it was so little noticed… “People who have lived here before always ignored it. They never heard the bird, never saw the city waking up under the pastel sky… It’s because it was so little appreciates that it became ever so special.”  
Carson exits the elevator, pulling his key out with Poppy at his heels, her ears cocked and her tail wagging faster, recognizing home right off the bat. She eagerly strains against her leash in order to get inside first when the door is unlocked.  
Cecil loves Carson’s apartment.  
It’s spacious and open; uncluttered, but not in an obsessive way – just casually tidied up. There are no sticky notes or reminders taped on every surface, and the countertops are wiped down. There’s a bookshelf in the far right, stacked with thick novels and thin poetry compilations standing side by side like old friends. There are several signed first edition novels written by Cecil; a book called Genesis, about androids, The Dark Life, about living in space, Fox Portions, about a gang of ragged children living in the woods, and Barbed Wire, his world-shaking novel on the realities of this world – all crowded together with their titles bolded and brilliant.  
The windows let in the flush of the afternoon sunlight, shining on the contents of his flat. There’s an unused couch, a television, a fan spinning lazily overhead, an easel propped on its stands, its white face splashed with color. There’s Poppy’s dog bed, a single framed photograph on the wall, a vacuumed rug, and clean kitchen utensils organized in their designated drawers.  
Carson prefers Cecil’s apartment to his own.  
Maybe it’s not even the floor plan, nor the decorations, but instead the people it houses, surrounded by the sticky note soldiers. Maybe it’s because they built memories in it like blocks, stacking them up, building around them a fortress of thoughts and emotions. That would certainly explain a lot, including why Carson feels like his castle falls apart whenever Cecil is gone.  
Poppy flops down on her bed, tongue lolling, her body sprawled and tail wagging. He feels like lying down too, exhaustion hanging over him like a clouds. It’s as if Cecil was a separate embodiment of energy, constantly keeping Carson inspired and moving – without him, he feels no creativity.  
Without Cecil, he feels like a blank easel, begging for color.

~~~

Cecil doesn’t only brighten Carson’s life, either.  
Koi can’t stand to be away from the young author for long; it detests it, it loathes it. Koi feels destructive, angry – more monstrous than it really is. It’s hungry for the presence of Cecil and nothing more.  
It wants to cut off Cecil’s lips so he can’t talk to anyone else. It craves to gouge out Cecil’s eyes so he can’t look at anyone else. It wants Cecil all for itself.  
And Carson is getting in the way.


End file.
